November 2005 Archives

When the fires started burning in Paris, Geoff and I were in Tunisia. I had caught bits and decided to put on the news. BBC World News rewarded me with a brief headline story which showed burning cars, riots and mentioned Paris. It was over so quickly that I had no idea what exactly had happened or why but I got the idea - Paris on fire. I'm not sure if the media is just stupid or evil. Unfortunately for us all, I think a bit of both. It has become increasingly obvious to me that 99% of the media is interested in one thing - sensationalism.


Personally, I am starting to believe that there are two components necessary to understand a situation adequately - communication and analysis. Without communication, one could never feel the agony of an Iraqi family whose loved ones are killed by a U.S. bomb attack. Without communication, we could never hope to unravel the stereotypes that Muslims and Americans have about each other, or even that many Americans have about the French.


When I talk to people, I am often surprised at what I learn. I was stunned by the reaction of Muslims in Tunisia when I told them we were American. Each individual - whether a taxi driver, store owner, or just a man we met on the bus - had the same reaction. They would welcome us and say that they believed people were all the same across the world. In fact, many of them were more concerned about what Americans thought and feared about them than the other way around.


It has been equally surprising to learn that by no means do the French hate Americans, despite what half of people said to us before our move. In my French class once we talked about what nationalities make jokes about each other. My teacher was stunned to learn that Americans make fun of the French. They don't make fun of Americans, apparently they're too busy picking on the Belgians. I didn't have the heart to tell her about the right-wing conspiracy to squash French companies and the US Representatives' success in renaming 'french fries' to 'freedom fries' in their cafeteria.


I am convinced that if people from different countries could meet and talk and get to know each others' families, hopes and hardships that there would never be war. How could Hiroshima happen if people truly had communication and empathy with the people of that city? How could the Iraq war happen? Yes, Saddam was uprooted but what of thousands upon thousands of innocent citizen casualties?


It saddens me to see that in the age of modern 'communication' the world still seems to be communicating so poorly. Why are we relying on the media giants to feed us a constant diet of fear?


But communication on its own is not enough. If I have empathy for the Iraqi people, but do not understand the complexities of the politics then I don't know how to act. What we need is analysis. By this I do not mean the 'experts' that CNN so readily digs up to blather on and fill the hours. I mean critical analysis. Jon Stewart from The Daily Show is a master at this but he analyzes for irony, not for understanding. Don't get me wrong, I love irony. But we need more. We need in-depth reporting. It's absurd that the more news coverage we get, the more superficial it is. There is 24/7 coverage of a situation but we still don't understand exactly what is happening and why.


I'm not sure what to make of the fact that the world seems to think that the entire city of Paris is engulfed in flames. People have begun cancelling their travel plans. I do not wish to minimize the situation and yet the reality of living here and seeing life as usual despite the issues has made me wonder. How can such a grave situation be represented through sensationalism rather than through understanding and critical thinking? By resorting to such sensationalism, the situation is at once exagerrated and minimized. We imagine the entire city, or country engulfed in a war. And yet we miss the layers of injustices, voices and arguments that has caused and is the only honest way to resolve the problem.

Perhaps this is true of all the headlines. Is life on the Gaza strip actually filled with sunny days and children playing? Because the image it conjures in my mind is of grenades thrown and shots fired. And yet who of us really understands the depth of history, suffering and rage unleashed there? It's like George Orwell once said, "Myths which are believed in tend to become true." Who is controlling our truth today, our 'news'? And why are we letting them?


P.S. I highly recommend George Orwell's essay "Politics and the Englsh Language."

Two planes, two taxi rides, a bus and a Louage...

I had a sinking feeling we wouldn't survive the flight to Tozeur on TunisAir. A small plane in a foreign country with questionable security and unknown technology added up to surefire disaster in my mind. Geoff comforted me saying my biggest problem would be the smell emitted by some other passengers. We waited hours at the airport although the flight was never listed as late. Children amused themselves by climbing around signs, running in circles, and lying on the floor. The adults just sat. Finally we went through security x-ray where our bags got caught up in the rollers causing the entire luggage carousel to collapse. I bit my lip to avoid bursting out laughing and calmly took my bags away. Afterwards, we laughed imagining next we'd lift the armrest and rip out the whole seat of the plane or lift the window shade and inadvertently pull off the entire window. Well if we were going to die, at least we would go out smiling.

On the evening flight, I looked out the window below and saw scattered white lights on dotting the darkness like stars in a night sky. We had been diverted to stop first in Gafsa so we wound up having two flights. I promised Geoff that if we lived I wouldn't complain about anything else on the trip. When the second flight touched down, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. When I saw Tozeur, I knew I had made a difficult promise to keep.

In Tozeur, we arrived at the hotel we had booked and I asked to see the room first which was a joke since where else would we go? Tozeur had two types of hotels - ones for 250+ dinars a night and those for 30 dinars per night. There was nothing in the middle. I had picked the best of the worst and it showed. As soon as I saw it I realized I'd be waiting for the next hotel to shower. But I came back to the front desk where Geoff was waiting. I smiled and said, we'll take it.

That night we walked through the old city. At 9 pm, the locals were out in cafés, shops and even barbershops. Men sitting on stoops greeted us as we walked by - clearly, we stood out. Despite seeming safe, everything in Tozeur had an aged roughness to it. Paint peeled off every surface, tiles were cracked, and nothing seemed quite scrubbed clean. We found the only open restaurant with some tourists. This was a first for us, we were actually seeking out tourist spots. They didn't have much of the menu that night, and I was looking for something plain so I got spaghetti. Big mistake. It was pretty gross. Geoff fared better with lamb kebabs so I ate some of his. But seriously, how much lamb can one eat? The Tunisian answer: a lot.

That night at the hotel, I tried to research a hotel in the DK book since Lonely Planet had steered us to a dump, once again. While reading in bed, we spotted a large bug darting across the floor which Geoff promptly killed. I was convinced it was a roach, but Geoff claimed it was a beetle. Unfortunately I've seen a roach before so I wasn't convinced. We slept better than you would expect under the circumstances but I awoke alert and ready to go at 7:15 am.

We gathered our bags and walked to the bus station. The streets were filled with trash and I even spotted a dead cat in the side of the road. Where was the town of historic architecture in the tour books? We had decided to make our way to Douz because it sounded more like a resort town with tourist attractions. After all, it was nicknamed 'the gateway to the Desert.' Little did we know...

Meanwhile we hopped on a bus to Khebili where we would find another bus to Douz. The headrests of the bus seats were wet and I had a sinking feeling it wasn't from freshly washed hair. We drove past the salt lake Chott El Jerid, part of a system of lakes that stretches from the Gulf of Gabes all the way into Algeria. The colors of the mineral rich landscape shimmered purple and red with a crusty white edge. I had read that this was the most frequent location for a mirage. Mine was of a luxury hotel in a legitimate tourist town. Of course, I wasn't complaining. I was alive and happy to be so.

We passed through a series of rural desert towns, all of which looked poor, where children played barefoot on the dusty streets and covered women carried groceries from markets. The poorly built houses sagged and bulged with age. Often we'd spot roosters, chickens and sheep running amidst the people. Geoff tracked our progress to Khebili on his GPS when we were approached by an interesting character with dyed fire engine red hair wearing an Adidas tracksuit. He was Tunisian but spoke English and showed us pictures of 'friends' he had met from other countries. I could tell Geoff was concentrating on not missing our stop. I didn't trust this guy but it was strange, I didn't mistrust him either. I guess when you're in a completely foreign place, you're so off balance that there's almost no sense in overanalyzing who is a friend or foe. It's clear you're vulnerable regardless. He got off the stop with us and offered to lead us to the Douz Louage station. So we followed him around the block. He reassured us that although there were a lot of scams he would be our Greek God of protection. And sure enough he got us straight to the Louage station which was basically a van parked on a street corner. There were several other locals taking the van to Douz for three dinars each. We thanked him and were on our own again.

Ironically the small van was much more comfortable than the 'luxury' bus. Nothing like vinyl seats to give you a sense of cleanliness. Nothing sticks to that stuff. Two planes, two taxi rides, a bus and a Louage later, we arrived into Douz. My first thought: um, this doesn't look like a resort town...

At 11 am, we literally stepped out of the van into the dusty desert town of Douz. It looked pretty much like all the worn-down towns we had passed on the way. We were immediately approached by a sales guy wanting us to take a tour that afternoon into the desert. The last tour left that day, he said. Due to a city festival over the next two days, he insisted, there would be no more tours after this. We almost were convinced, but I had done some advance research and knew for a fact there were tours the next day. Despite that, we went with him to his office since he was from Libre Espace which was one of the tour companies listed in both of our travel books. There we met Danielle, the French proprietor who spoke English and gave us the rundown of the tours. She seemed to know of no festival that would prevent us from doing a tour the next day.

In the meantime, I was eager to get checked into a normal hotel and shower. So they got me a taxi and I had him drive me to the only 4-star hotel in Douz - the El Mauradi. They wouldn't let me see a room, but it seemed decent enough and I figured it probably wasn't going to get much better so I booked a room. The room wasn't great - the towels were brown and of questionable cleanliness as well as the rug which had several iron marks on it (this seems to be a Tunisian trademark). On the plus side, it had a direct view of the sandy desert and a screen on the window. I hadn't seen a screen for several months, so that was quite exciting. Anyway, I took a shower, dried my hair and felt a bit better. Then I went down to the lobby to arrange a taxi. I finally made it back to our meeting corner at 12:45. Geoff had been waiting for me for a half hour since he was worried.

At this point, we had to decide on whether we would take a Sahara tour or not. Partly we wanted to just call it off and head back to Tunis. On the other hand, we had come this far. We had this vague feeling that we might be leaving right before the final reward so we decided to press on. We booked a tour. After that we went for some lunch at the only place open in Douz - Les Palmiers. Geoff and I both ate 'bricks' some egg and tuna stuffed into a fried shell. And we ordered some couscous, which this time turned out to be more like pastina than soggy breadcrumbs. I skipped the lamb, but ate the vegetables and wished there were more.

We took a cab back to the hotel and right before sunset decided to walk into the desert. Of course according to the tour books, we were not yet at the "Sahara of your dreams." Instead it's a combination of the sandy and rocky desert that makes up the bulk of the Sahara. Several locals with camels and horses tried to get us to rent a ride or at least hop on for a photo, but we declined. The mosquitoes were fierce and we got pretty bit up. But it was pretty and we amused ourselves practicing taking pictures of the sunset.

Back at the hotel, we kept trying to go to the gift shop to buy some stamps. But every time we went, the store was filled with Spanish people trying on traditional Berber dresses and headwraps. The tour groups were fascinating - they appeared and vanished in waves. Soon after, we discovered several hundred Spaniards in the lobby dressed in their newly purchased Berber outfits. Within a half hour, they were gone.

That night we sought out a traditional restaurant for dinner. When we went to the front desk at the hotel and asked them about getting a cab, they didn't think that was too likely for some reason. But he made a call, spoke some Arabic and then reported to us that the owner would come pick us up himself. When he arrived, we hopped in his car and he told us that tonight there was a "spectacle" with music and dancing -- apparently we were in luck.

When we were arrived, we found several hundred men and women in Berber outfits under a tent sitting at huge banquette tables. It was the Spaniards from the hotel. Technically the spectacle was for them, but we were welcome to join for a (still unspoken) price. It was pretty obviously that we didn't belong. Not because we didn't look Spanish, but because we weren't dressed in Berber outfits. We were seated in a section of all the people who just happened to come to this particular restaurant for dinner and didn't know what they were in for. At our table were two Swiss bankers who we spoke French with. It was easy to meet the others since we kept getting up. There was some soup, then some dancing and a horse show, then some couscous, then some belly dancing and singing, then dessert. In between the courses we met the other outcasts - a Tunisian woman and her Belgian boyfriend and a couple of British guys.

After the dinner (the Spaniards had now moved indoors for more singing and dancing), we started talking to the owner, mostly in English. He said not many Americans came there and he wanted to know if it was because they were afraid. I said, maybe. It was so unfortunate, he said echoing the same sentiment we would hear from all the Muslims we met in Tunisia. He believed that Americans and Arabs were just like all people, they wanted the same things. And it was true, it was clear the people here wanted the same things as us - family, success, peace. He wanted us to tell others, to encourage them to come to Tunisia and not be afraid. We promised to try, and soon after he drove us back to the hotel where for the first time ever we slept with the window open without fear of what might crawl or fly in.

Two planes, two taxi rides, a bus and a Louage...Your browser may not support display of this image.

I had a sinking feeling we wouldn't survive the flight to Tozeur on TunisAir. A small plane in a foreign country with questionable security and unknown technology added up to surefire disaster in my mind. Geoff comforted me saying my biggest problem would be the smell emitted by some other passengers. We waited hours at the airport although the flight was never listed as late. Children amused themselves by climbing around signs, running in circles, and lying on the floor. The adults just sat. Finally we went through security x-ray where our bags got caught up in the rollers causing the entire luggage carousel to collapse. I bit my lip to avoid bursting out laughing and calmly took my bags away. Afterwards, we laughed imagining next we'd lift the armrest and rip out the whole seat of the plane or lift the window shade and inadvertently pull off the entire window. Well if we were going to die, at least we would go out smiling.

On the evening flight, I looked out the window below and saw scattered white lights on dotting the darkness like stars in a night sky. We had been diverted to stop first in Gafsa so we wound up having two flights. I promised Geoff that if we lived I wouldn't complain about anything else on the trip. When the second flight touched down, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. When I saw Tozeur, I knew I had made a difficult promise to keep.

In Tozeur, we arrived at the hotel we had booked and I asked to see the room first which was a joke since where else would we go? Tozeur had two types of hotels - ones for 250+ dinars a night and those for 30 dinars per night. There was nothing in the middle. I had picked the best of the worst and it showed. As soon as I saw it I realized I'd be waiting for the next hotel to shower. But I came back to the front desk where Geoff was waiting. I smiled and said, we'll take it.

That night we walked through the old city. At 9 pm, the locals were out in cafés, shops and even barbershops. Men sitting on stoops greeted us as we walked by - clearly, we stood out. Despite seeming safe, everything in Tozeur had an aged roughness to it. Paint peeled off every surface, tiles were cracked, and nothing seemed quite scrubbed clean. We found the only open restaurant with some tourists. This was a first for us, we were actually seeking out tourist spots. They didn't have much of the menu that night, and I was looking for something plain so I got spaghetti. Big mistake. It was pretty gross. Geoff fared better with lamb kebabs so I ate some of his. But seriously, how much lamb can one eat? The Tunisian answer: a lot.

That night at the hotel, I tried to research a hotel in the DK book since Lonely Planet had steered us to a dump, once again. While reading in bed, we spotted a large bug darting across the floor which Geoff promptly killed. I was convinced it was a roach, but Geoff claimed it was a beetle. Unfortunately I've seen a roach before so I wasn't convinced. We slept better than you would expect under the circumstances but I awoke alert and ready to go at 7:15 am.

We gathered our bags and walked to the bus station. The streets were filled with trash and I even spotted a dead cat in the side of the road. Where was the town of historic architecture in the tour books? We had decided to make our way to Douz because it sounded more like a resort town with tourist attractions. After all, it was nicknamed 'the gateway to the Desert.' Little did we know...

Meanwhile we hopped on a bus to Khebili where we would find another bus to Douz. The headrests of the bus seats were wet and I had a sinking feeling it wasn't from freshly washed hair. We drove past the salt lake Chott El Jerid, part of a system of lakes that stretches from the Gulf of Gabes all the way into Algeria. The colors of the mineral rich landscape shimmered purple and red with a crusty white edge. I had read that this was the most frequent location for a mirage. Mine was of a luxury hotel in a legitimate tourist town. Of course, I wasn't complaining. I was alive and happy to be so.

We passed through a series of rural desert towns, all of which looked poor, where children played barefoot on the dusty streets and covered women carried groceries from markets. The poorly built houses sagged and bulged with age. Often we'd spot roosters, chickens and sheep running amidst the people. Geoff tracked our progress to Khebili on his GPS when we were approached by an interesting character with dyed fire engine red hair wearing an Adidas tracksuit. He was Tunisian but spoke English and showed us pictures of 'friends' he had met from other countries. I could tell Geoff was concentrating on not missing our stop. I didn't trust this guy but it was strange, I didn't mistrust him either. I guess when you're in a completely foreign place, you're so off balance that there's almost no sense in overanalyzing who is a friend or foe. It's clear you're vulnerable regardless. He got off the stop with us and offered to lead us to the Douz Louage station. So we followed him around the block. He reassured us that although there were a lot of scams he would be our Greek God of protection. And sure enough he got us straight to the Louage station which was basically a van parked on a street corner. There were several other locals taking the van to Douz for three dinars each. We thanked him and were on our own again.

Ironically the small van was much more comfortable than the 'luxury' bus. Nothing like vinyl seats to give you a sense of cleanliness. Nothing sticks to that stuff. Two planes, two taxi rides, a bus and a Louage later, we arrived into Douz. My first thought: um, this doesn't look like a resort town...

At 11 am, we literally stepped out of the van into the dusty desert town of Douz. It looked pretty much like all the worn-down towns we had passed on the way. We were immediately approached by a sales guy wanting us to take a tour that afternoon into the desert. The last tour left that day, he said. Due to a city festival over the next two days, he insisted, there would be no more tours after this. We almost were convinced, but I had done some advance research and knew for a fact there were tours the next day. Despite that, we went with him to his office since he was from Libre Espace which was one of the tour companies listed in both of our travel books. There we met Danielle, the French proprietor who spoke English and gave us the rundown of the tours. She seemed to know of no festival that would prevent us from doing a tour the next day.

In the meantime, I was eager to get checked into a normal hotel and shower. So they got me a taxi and I had him drive me to the only 4-star hotel in Douz - the El Mauradi. They wouldn't let me see a room, but it seemed decent enough and I figured it probably wasn't going to get much better so I booked a room. The room wasn't great - the towels were brown and of questionable cleanliness as well as the rug which had several iron marks on it (this seems to be a Tunisian trademark). On the plus side, it had a direct view of the sandy desert and a screen on the window. I hadn't seen a screen for several months, so that was quite exciting. Anyway, I took a shower, dried my hair and felt a bit better. Then I went down to the lobby to arrange a taxi. I finally made it back to our meeting corner at 12:45. Geoff had been waiting for me for a half hour since he was worried.

At this point, we had to decide on whether we would take a Sahara tour or not. Partly we wanted to just call it off and head back to Tunis. On the other hand, we had come this far. We had this vague feeling that we might be leaving right before the final reward so we decided to press on. We booked a tour. After that we went for some lunch at the only place open in Douz - Les Palmiers. Geoff and I both ate 'bricks' some egg and tuna stuffed into a fried shell. And we ordered some couscous, which this time turned out to be more like pastina than soggy breadcrumbs. I skipped the lamb, but ate the vegetables and wished there were more.

We took a cab back to the hotel and right before sunset decided to walk into the desert. Of course according to the tour books, we were not yet at the "Sahara of your dreams." Instead it's a combination of the sandy and rocky desert that makes up the bulk of the Sahara. Several locals with camels and horses tried to get us to rent a ride or at least hop on for a photo, but we declined. The mosquitoes were fierce and we got pretty bit up. But it was pretty and we amused ourselves practicing taking pictures of the sunset.

Back at the hotel, we kept trying to go to the gift shop to buy some stamps. But every time we went, the store was filled with Spanish people trying on traditional Berber dresses and headwraps. The tour groups were fascinating - they appeared and vanished in waves. Soon after, we discovered several hundred Spaniards in the lobby dressed in their newly purchased Berber outfits. Within a half hour, they were gone.

That night we sought out a traditional restaurant for dinner. When we went to the front desk at the hotel and asked them about getting a cab, they didn't think that was too likely for some reason. But he made a call, spoke some Arabic and then reported to us that the owner would come pick us up himself. When he arrived, we hopped in his car and he told us that tonight there was a "spectacle" with music and dancing -- apparently we were in luck.

When we were arrived, we found several hundred men and women in Berber outfits under a tent sitting at huge banquette tables. It was the Spaniards from the hotel. Technically the spectacle was for them, but we were welcome to join for a (still unspoken) price. It was pretty obviously that we didn't belong. Not because we didn't look Spanish, but because we weren't dressed in Berber outfits. We were seated in a section of all the people who just happened to come to this particular restaurant for dinner and didn't know what they were in for. At our table were two Swiss bankers who we spoke French with. It was easy to meet the others since we kept getting up. There was some soup, then some dancing and a horse show, then some couscous, then some belly dancing and singing, then dessert. In between the courses we met the other outcasts - a Tunisian woman and her Belgian boyfriend and a couple of British guys.

After the dinner (the Spaniards had now moved indoors for more singing and dancing), we started talking to the owner, mostly in English. He said not many Americans came there and he wanted to know if it was because they were afraid. I said, maybe. It was so unfortunate, he said echoing the same sentiment we would hear from all the Muslims we met in Tunisia. He believed that Americans and Arabs were just like all people, they wanted the same things. And it was true, it was clear the people here wanted the same things as us - family, success, peace. He wanted us to tell others, to encourage them to come to Tunisia and not be afraid. We promised to try, and soon after he drove us back to the hotel where for the first time ever we slept with the window open without fear of what might crawl or fly in.